Crocodile Clock
by straywords
Summary: Wendy grows. Peter forgets, and does not seize a moment to change their ending. Set in the last chapter.


Disclaimer: While redundant, it's not mine. Please review.

Adults have no desire to look within their drawers of dreams; it is nothing more than a tangled pile of possibilities and broken hopes for so many long past childhood and youth.

Wendy Darling has reached the age at which she must put her fancies away; after all, dreams have no place in a practical, responsible and perfectly proper young woman's life.

And Wendy is quite the picture of a practical, responsible and proper woman.

She stands on the cusp of youth and adulthood. She is deemed a young woman quite ready to begin her adult life.

Her family is proud of her, and they know she shall make an attentive wife someday. Marriage is the natural course of a proper young lady, (or so Wendy is often told).

They have all forgotten what Wendy was once like. The child Wendy was adventurous and bright, and the worlds she lived in were colored in the boldest of hues. Wendy can no longer shine so brightly as the boys can fly.

Of all her brothers, only Michael remembers the Wendy that flew to Neverland. Perhaps it is because he is the youngest, or that he is the most like the old Wendy. He says nothing to her about her faded colors; uncertain, at times, that Neverland was more than a make believe.

Michael watches as she tucks away the last of her dreams.

Already, her drawer is half full of faded vestiges of childhood.

Both wonder when Neverland became so difficult to reach, when it once called through their dreams as soon as their eyes slipped shut.

Peter Pan cannot sleep. It is not that he is afraid to dream – Peter is much_ too_ clever to be afraid of anything – but something leaves him unsettled and disturbed at night. He cannot remember why; it is the price he pays for his eternal youth. Flashes of _something_ tug and pull at his mind in those dark, silent hours, and he knows that this something is important.

But whatever it is, it is lost to that void in which only nightmares roam, never to enter conscious thought again.

Every once in a great while, this something whispers in the back of his mind when he's fighting the pirates or capturing Tiger Lily's braves. The flash gives him pause, and Neverland changes for a moment. It is not a physical change that overcomes Neverland; simply a feeling shifts and Peter is left disturbed in the wake.

Peter asks the Chief and the Lost Boys if they have felt Neverland change, and he even asks a pirate (after fighting him, of course), but they can give Peter no answer. Silently, they wonder if Peter's pretend has far surpassed them at last.

He finds no joy in adventures anymore. They have become vicious and bleak.

There are few Lost Boys in Neverland. It is not because boys no longer fall out of their prams; it is because the boys no longer escape the pirates that pursue them, even with Peter's help.

The mermaids are of no assistance; all they do is laugh and will not answer, no matter how much Peter plays his pipes for them.

Peter has only the foggiest feeling that Neverland was much different, once.

Suddenly, Peter remembers.

He trips through the undergrowth to an old tree covered in vines and moss. There are several entrances, all small, and he manages to slip down one into the hollow base. Peter searches the hollow, knowing somehow that the important something he seeks is hidden in the discarded hiding place. Suddenly, he stops, and plucks it from under a chair.

It is his kiss.

Wendy is much too young to dwell upon the what-ifs and lost chances of her life. She knows it is not practical, and certainly not becoming for a young woman hoping for happiness in this world.

In the early spring, she sits in the window seat, the lock unlatched and the curtains not drawn. The cool, spring air tinged with the last of winter's icy grip sweeps into the room, but cannot sweep her memories away. Unbidden phantoms rise through her mind, taunting her with sunlit days and careless laughter.

She wonders if Peter ever remembers her anymore.

He kept his promise, and he came back for her a couple of times, but the last spring-cleaning in Neverland was years ago. Wendy suspects the little house that was built for her on her first visit to Neverland has fallen apart, rotting in the treetops.

It is not Peter's nature to remember, after all.

The hour is late, and the house is quiet. All of her brothers, excluding Michael, dorm at their school for boys and old Nana still sleeps in the former nursery. An inexplicable sense of loss overcomes Wendy. She latches the window and draws the curtains. It is time to put such things behind her.

The young spring wind whispering through the trees makes her restless.

She longs for the reprieve summer will bring.

There is a long forgotten cottage hidden amongst the trees high on a mountaintop that overlooks the plains where the tigers and lions stalk through the long, yellow grass. An old woman of endless years has lived in the cottage since before the fairies brought Peter to Neverland, which was a very long time ago. Who she is or why she lives there are secrets she keeps to herself. None but the trees are even aware of her presence on the mountain.

She remembers all that has passed in Neverland, and knows what will be.

In fact, she knew Peter would seek her out long before the thought flitted across his mind.

Peter had been passing over the mountain in his flight, the kiss in his hand when the trees seemed to part for a moment, revealing the little cottage amongst the trees whose branches had seemed to shift in the wind at just the right moment. Curiosity took hold, and he landed outside the door. The cottage was something to be explored. With each new dream a child dreams, something new appears (or disappears, as the case may be) on Neverland. A cottage such as the one before him was somewhat unusual to be a child's whimsy.

When the door creaked open he immediately reached for his dagger, only to find the little old woman smiling knowingly at him. She was tiny, wrinkled and grey, and her shirts swish-swished about her as she stepped.

"Peter Pan. The crocodile's clock is ticking, and your time has nearly run out."

She beckoned him in and sat him at her table. The old woman would wait until he asked his questions.

Peter's confusion was great, but it would not deter him.

"Who are you? I've never seen this place before."

She smiled. "You already know what I am not, Peter Pan. What I am has no bearing upon you, so you need not know. Now, let me see your kiss."

Startled, Peter opened his clenched hand to reveal the shiny kiss. She took it from him, and rubbed her apron across its grimy surface before she gave it back to him.

"Quite a token, you have. Peter Pan, do you remember your Wendy?"

He remembered flashing brown eyes, medicine, nights dancing amongst the fairies in their revels, and a song about round windows. Peter remembered Wendy.

He nodded, belatedly wondering if it was spring.

A grave expression overtook the old woman's face. "You have a decision to make, Peter Pan. Do you want to forever be a boy, flying and fighting pirates?"

"Yes!" Peter's voice was earnest. He _did_ want to forever be a boy, he thought.

"Forever without your Wendy?"

"She shall leave the window open, and will come for the spring cleaning!"

"No, she shall not. It is early autumn and the window is shut. It shall not open again for you."

Peter's eyes became glassy with panic.

"She promised!"

"She grew up, Peter. You were once warned that this would come to pass. Wendy shall soon find a husband."

"No!"

The old woman frowned fiercely at him.

"Peter Pan!" she scolded. " If you desire to see your Wendy again you will let go of this pretend! Long have you lied to yourself, boy, out of fear! You would sooner devolve into Hook's likeness than face yourself."

"I will not become Hook. I shall not!"

"Perhaps. You will certainly never remember if you do, after all, for whimsy dreams are lost on the swiftest wings. Is it not so, Peter Pan?"

He was quiet for a long moment as he fiddled with his kiss.

"I shall stay a boy, and Wendy shall open the window and tell her stories!"

And with such parting words, Peter fled.

The old woman, rather looking more her age than ever, sighed heavily. Let none say she had not tried, she thought. The boy was stubborn, and would clutch his false youth fiercely, never understanding what was given in exchange.

The trees swallowed up the cottage once more.

Nervous butterflies were fluttering about Wendy's stomach. Tonight would hardly be the first event she had attended since coming out into society, but every experience was much like the first one. Hesitantly, she let the young man escort her onto the dance floor. He was quite handsome, and his father was a clerk at the same bank as Mr. Darling. Like his father and hers, William expected to find a position at the bank. Her life, should she marry him, would be nearly identical to that of her mother's; Wendy knew that her father thought highly of him, and should William propose to her, they would certainly have her parent's blessing.

William was wonderful – he was always the perfect gentleman, and he admired how well read she was. His future was certain, and a man of his ilk would surely keep it so, even with the threat of a world war looming over them all.

Conversation was light and natural between them as they whirled in a lively dance amongst the other young men and women. William never once stepped on her feet, which Wendy was more than grateful for; the shoes she wore pinched her toes, and the room was stuffy and already made her uncomfortably warm. Suddenly she wished they were dancing in the cool spring air, barefoot, under the stars.

Involuntarily, Wendy's eyes were drawn to William's. His were green, but faded and dull, like an unpolished gemstone. William's eyes would never glow with the lively color of new leaves in spring.

Wendy was instantly ashamed of herself. The dance ended and she slipped away from William with a distracted smile.

What little charm the dance had held was now lost for the night as memories she'd vowed to lock away pushed insistently at the heavy lock that restrained them. She found a corner seat somewhat hidden from view and watched everyone else dance for the evening. After a while, Wendy could no longer bear to watch, and her gaze found a window. The curtain was pulled back and the window open to let in the chill night air.

A feeling of having lost something important crept over her as she stood near the window, pretending for the entire world that she was simply enjoying the cooler air and what could be seen of London from the other side of the glass.

Thoughts of another dance in a magical place were troubling her.

That night was the first Wendy cursed Peter Pan. If she had not been quite sure otherwise, Wendy would swear that his shadow had once more escaped him and was playing tricks on her, mischievous shadow of youth that it was.

The clock loudly sounded the hour, and Wendy started.

Such thoughts are hardly practical. Wendy pushed them into her drawer.

She has already decided that she will be married in white with a pink sash.

Peter had long ago forgotten the strange conversation he had in the hidden cottage, and had entirely forgotten the old woman who lived there. The kiss he had found he lost once more, and was buried deep under a pile of twigs and leaves, abandoned in an untidy hiding place the Lost Boys rarely used.

Peter had been in a rollicking fight with the newest Lost Boy when _something_ tugged at his memory.

This something had to do with the coming of spring, and cleaning.

Peter could vaguely recall a window, somewhere, that had been open through which he had heard the grandest stories about himself.

The urge to return there, to find the window struck his fancy.

Surely, it was spring-cleaning time somewhere.

He could not remember his last cleaning, but the name returned.

_Wendy._

The window was hers and she had a promise to keep.

Surely, it would not matter that he had missed the last spring and the one before.

On the far side of the island of dreams, a crocodile's clock stopped.


End file.
